Molly Hooper's camel suffered a broken back at approximately eight P.M. on a Saturday night in April, the last straw having been delivered by none other than Sherlock Holmes, of course. It was at that time that, instead of knocking at her door, her expected date texted her -
CAN'T MAKE IT TONIGHT, SORRY - PAUL
? - MH
PLEASE DON'T LET HIM HURT ME - PAUL
Molly knew instantly who "him" was. This would be her ninth, or possibly tenth (she wasn't sure if she should count the psychopath), budding relationship which Sherlock had successfully sabotaged. But Molly was determined that it would be the last. She opened a bottle of wine, slumped down on her couch, and tried to figure out how she could make sure it would never happen again. It didn't take her long to come to the realization that the world's only consulting detective was never going to change, and that any alteration in their relationship would have start from her side.
The following afternoon Molly made her way to Baker Street to confront the man she now considered her nemesis. The thought itself seems ridiculous. Normal human beings didn't really have nemeses. High functioning sociopaths did. Nevertheless, she now considered him her nemesis, "archenemy" seeming too extreme a term to apply. Molly was angry, angrier than she had ever been. She was looking through a long black tunnel leading to a life a spinsterhood and cats, and the only one she had to blame was Sherlock bloody Holmes!
Sherlock was distractedly playing his violin while John edited his blog. John Watson was more than a little annoyed that he was spending Sunday afternoon at his former lodgings instead of at home with his wife and infant daughter. But Sherlock, not knowing the the earth revolved around the sun, naturally assumed that it revolved around him, and had insisted that John attend him at 221B. They were both startled by the slamming of the downstairs door, followed by a shout of, "You insufferable git."
"Must be for you, mate," John chuckled.
"Ah, Molly, how was your evening?" Sherlock smirked as he put down his violin and turned to his pathologist.
"What was wrong with this one? Did he bite his nails? Too many parking tickets? Was he a serial jaywalker, Sherlock?"
"None of the above, Molly. But he did plagiarize a report on Medieval history during his third year at university. Doesn't speak well for his honesty."
"Did you threaten him?"
"'Threaten' is an awfully strong term…"
"This is the tenth relationship who have ruined for me, you bloody prick!"
"Only the ninth, actually. I don't count the psychopath."
Molly lifted her arm and took a step forward, but he had been slapped before, and was prepared for the blow. Molly, at the last moment, noticed the slight twitch of a facial muscle indicating his readiness for the expected contact, and thought to herself, "Been there, done that," and instead lifted her right foot and brought her heel down with full force on his left instep. Sherlock was still howling in pain as she turned and left the flat.
John would have found the scene extremely amusing if it wasn't for two things. First, Sherlock was obviously in real pain. And second, in all these years, he had never seen Molly Hooper angry enough to actually cause such real pain. As he examined his friend's injury, he said to him, "I think you may have done some real damage this time, Sherlock."
"Damage, John. Look at my foot!"
"Sherlock…"
"She'll get over it, John. She always gets over it." As he said this, Sherlock was disturbed by the doubtful look on John's face. "Won't she?"
Molly was walking hurriedly down Baker Street, searching for a cab to flag down. She was angry, and hurt, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she couldn't bear this anymore. There was only one person who she could think of who could her help her disentangle herself from Sherlock Holmes. But would they? She typed a text into her mobile.
I NEED YOUR HELP - MOLLY HOOPER
WHERE ARE YOU? I WILL SEND A CAR IMMEDIATELY - VIOLET HOLMES
Later that afternoon Molly was sitting in an elegant sitting room having tea with the matriarch of the Holmes family.
"I would have gone to Mycroft, but I'm not sure he would have understood, Mrs. Holmes."
"Are you sure this is what you want, Molly?"
"It's not so much about what I want, Mrs. Homes, but what I need," Molly explained, fighting back tears.
"But you must know that Sherlock is inordinately fond of you."
"Not really. Sherlock is inordinately fond of expensive coats, and purple shirts. I'm just a convenience. He'll find another pathologist soon enough, if he has to. He'll complain for a while, but he'll adjust. But I simply can't go on like this. I have no life, and I want one! Please just tell him to let me go. He'll listen to you. I believe you're the only one he would listen to!"
"Molly, dear, I've always been under the impression that you cared deeply for my son. Have I been wrong?"
"No. I did, I do… But it's not enough anymore! I'm unhappy, and getting unhappier by the day. Please help me."
"You've been of great help to both of my boys, even if they don't often acknowledge it. I'm sure neither of them want to see you this unhappy. I certainly don't! We owe you so much, my dear."
She sighed a heavy sigh, "If this is what you truly want, I'll ask Mycroft to make the arrangements. I just wish things could have turned out differently…"
Later that week, Mycroft was indeed in touch about the "arrangements". Molly had been bought out of the lease on her flat, and set up with a promising new position at a major hospital and research center in Yorkshire. She could leave London at her convenience. The elder Holmes brother had even seemed a little sad to see her go. He had taken her hand and gently asked if this was what she truly wanted. She had assured him that it was, and was surprised when he offered to tell Sherlock himself. This was a great relief, as Molly had been dreading the scene she was sure would follow.
Her relief was misguided, however, as Sherlock stormed into her lab when she was in the middle of a consultation with DI Greg Lestrade and Sgt. Sally Donovan.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Hooper?" Sherlock shouted. "Why would you go to Mycroft if you felt this way? Bloody Mycroft! Shipping you off to the hinterlands! What do you think you're doing?"
"I didn't go to Mycroft, Sherlock. I went to you mother! I knew she would help. This is my decision. You can shout all you want, you'll be out of my life soon enough!"
"You going somewhere, Molly?" Lestrade asked quietly, trying to calm the situation.
"Yorkshire," Molly answered through gritted teeth.
"Bloody Yorkshire! What are you going to do in bloody Yorkshire?", Sherlock screamed again.
"Same thing I do here, but without you!"
"You can't survive without me! You'll be bored to death! But go. Go find yourself some dull little man, live in a dull little house, and raise dull little children in a dull little…"
He didn't see the fist coming before it made contact with his perfect nose. He grabbed his face and started to hop around the lab. That's when Sally Donovan made the mistake of laughing.
"Look at the freak dance! Losing his little mouse at last! Teach you, freak!"
Sally was soon doing the same dance, as Molly landed her second punch smack in the middle of Sally's astonished face.
Lestrade tried to look serious as he said to Molly, "You realize you've just assaulted a police officer? And a consulting detective on the police payroll ?"
Donovan was screaming, "I want her arrested right now!" Greg began to look a little concerned. "Molly, I…"
Molly held out her hands. "Just do it, Greg. Put on the cuffs and get me the hell out of here!" Greg sighed heavily and he took her into custody.
A short time later Molly was sitting in a holding cell at New Scotland Yard. It's wasn't half bad. Certainly not the dark, dank hole in the ground that Sherlock had described after his brief incarceration as a result of John's bachelor party. There was a single cot, and a simple toilet in the corner. She hoped she was released on bond before she had to use it. The door opened and DI Lestrade entered. When Molly looked up at him she was amazed to see that he, too, was sporting a bandaged nose.
"I don't remember hitting you, Greg," Molly made a slight grimace.
He rolled his eyes and said in explanation, "Sherlock. He was really ticked off about me putting cuffs on you. It's broken, damn it! Donovan's isn't, just bruised. Sherlock, unfortunately, will also still retain his perfect profile."
Just then the cell door opened again, and another prisoner was deposited into the holding cell. Sherlock Holmes. He looked at Lestrade, and for once had the decency to look sheepish. "My apologies, Graham."
"It's Greg, damn it!"
"Whatever. Sorry,"
Greg turned to leave. "I'll be back when I straighten things out. If Donovan wants to stay in my division, she won't be pressing charges. That punch was long overdue. I'm just surprised you were the one to deliver it, Molly! Sherlock, since you've apologized so sincerely," he added sarcastically, "I'll see what I can do about your charges, too. Just sit tight, you two."
The two sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. Molly could not bring herself to look at Sherlock and the damage she had done to his nose. Not that he didn't deserve it. He deserved it ten times over. She noticed that the punch had seemed to have a cathartic effect on her. She was no longer as angry as she had been, just sad. When she finally stole a glance at him, she noticed that Sherlock was studying her.
"You told mummy on me," he finally said quietly.
"You make me sound like a schoolyard tattletale, you prat!", anger was returning. "And I'm sure your mummy didn't tell you to burst into my lab and cause a scene!
Molly got up from the cot and walked nervously around the small cell, looking down occasionally at the injuries she had inflicted on the man she still loved. "What are you doing, surveying the damage? In the past week you've nearly broken my foot, and my nose. God only knows what body part you'll go after next!" He cautiously crossed his legs. "She told you that I was inordinately fond of you, and you said I cared more about my purple shirt!"
"I've seen no evidence to the contrary!"
"I only wear the bloody shirt because you like it. You almost leer at me when I wear it!"
Molly turned red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Sherlock wasn't sure. "Well, what DID mummy tell you to do?"
"She told me that if I really didn't want you to leave, I should get down on my knees and beg you to stay with me. Would that have worked?"
"Maybe… Why didn't you?"
"My foot still hurts!"
"She also suggested I give you this," and then he fished in his pocket and brought out a small velvet box. He opened it to show her a rather large diamond solitaire. "Would that have worked?"
"Almost definitely…"
"Almost?"
"You'd have to convince me you really meant it, Sherlock. That you really wanted me to stay, and not just for the sake of convenience."
"I think I can do that." Sherlock then grabbed her arms and pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her passionately for the first time. When they finally broke for air, he smiled suggestively and said in his deepest voice, "We can continue this whenever we are RELEASED FROM CUSTODY!" The last three words were said very loudly, as he assumed, correctly, that Mycroft was keeping very close tabs on on what was going on in the cell.
Mycroft Holmes, who many said WAS the British government, was on his mobile to the one person in this world who truly frightened him. "Yes, mummy, everything has worked out satisfactorily. I think the wedding should be sooner rather than later," he added as he peeked in the small window on the door of the cell. The was a brief pause as he turned to walk down the hallway, then "No, mummy. I absolutely forbid it. You can't do that! Please, please promise me that you will not have a 'little chat' with Anthea!" He looked slightly panicky as he left the building.